A Virgin Virgin

OK, I’m officially pissed. Or maybe just internally wounded. And I have Richard Branson to thank. I mean come on! Lavender lighting? A TV/movie screen on every seat back…with cool indie flicks and tastefully-selected HBO specials? (at least my taste, anyway.) Supple leather upholstery? Hilarious pre-flight short clip including FINALLY the until-now-unspoken reminder to not be a pain-in-the-ass.

Don’t clip your nails, for instance. Gross. You’re not on a wagon train. You’re in PUBLIC. In tight quarters where no one wants to be, and besides, you might plummet to your death from 30,000 feet. You might hit a flock of geese and land in the Hudson. You might have a seat -mate that tries to light his shoe/bomb on fire. And you paid a lot of money to be in this predicament in what is otherwise known as the miracle of flight. You need a little peace. And heck, why not a little tude from the flight attendant with the architectural glasses And let’s not forget the FOOD– it’s good. I mean, brie? Foccacia? Cocktails with Acai juice? And there aren’t those knee-jamming obnoxious carts bumping up and down the aisle, with the annoying, Peanuts? question over and over as if you didn’t hear it one row in front of you. Pressurized soda cans popping in your ear, waking you from your head-bobbing tortured slumber. Instead, you order in perfectly-civilized fashion on a screen. And voila—there comes your drink and your cheese on a lovely tray, as it should be. And they have limes. Real limes.

I love you, Virgin Airlines. And I resent the fact that for eighteen years I’ve braved these tiny regional farty jets that have me sweating on tarmacks and developing anxiety attacks and not housing my small-as-possible roller-bag so that I have to wait in the rain on the strip afterward, nearly missing my next plane. Richard, I beg of you, come to Montana!